


Of Gardens

by TheClergy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-05-13 04:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19243729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheClergy/pseuds/TheClergy
Summary: The apocalypse has failed. Crowley and Aziraphale have evaded consequences for now, so what happens next? Everyone has gone home, so to speak, the great plan has experienced a serious setback, and the ineffable plan is as elusive as ever. So... what next? And how concerned should they be about occult (or ethereal) retribution?Or: In which Aziraphale and Crowley decide to spend a few years on vacation only to have things fall apart in a matter of weeks, courtesy of a handful of upstart demons with strong ideas about how things ought to be and a willingness to stop at no blood or expense to make them that way.Or: Giving the people the ace romance they want.





	1. Chapter 1

in·ef·fa·ble

/inˈefəb(ə)l/

_adjective_

  1. too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words.  
"the ineffable natural stupidity of the average human child"
  2. synonyms: inexpressible, indescribable, beyond words, beyond description, beggaring description



  
What is the purpose of a plan if nobody involved has the faintest clue of its contents? The simple answer is that there isn’t one. It’s an inside joke between God and herself, and there’s no punchline. Besides, if everyone has free will then it can’t really be a plan in the way that we understand it. The ineffable plan must be ineffable not as a product of greatness or mysticism but as a product of its complexity and contradictory nature. In fact, the argument could be made that it’s ineffable as a product of nonexistence, and God is not exactly available to make any corrections on the matter.

In short, the sides are arbitrary and there may as well be no plan, great, ineffable, or otherwise. At least, that’s what Crowley told himself, because otherwise he was royally fucked and there was a solid chance he was taking the angel with him. The great plan did not involve an angel and a demon sitting on a park bench holding hands. It did not include the richness of existence on Earth, and it did not include empathy or complex ethical thought, two subjects he had found himself rather adept at navigating, much to his chagrin.*

So they were on their own side now. Nobody was particularly paying attention. They were free to do as they pleased, and thus far the only thing that had changed was that they sometimes held hands. Crowley didn’t mind. It was nice, even if Aziraphale did have decisively unangelically clammy hands. Crowley had also borrowed a handful of books, and Aziraphale had a black eyed susan in a white ceramic pot, straight from Crowley’s own collection. Its leaves had spots. The angel had taken a more conventional approach to plant care, spoiling it until it was soft and lazy despite Crowley’s occasional whispered threats when he got a moment alone with it. The little bastard knew it was immune now, and it was taking full advantage of the status.

“Did you finish the book I lent you?” asked Aziraphale. It was the Mother Shipton original, the one with the drink on. Crowley nodded. He hadn’t.

“It’s right here,” he said, handing over the volume unceremoniously. Aziraphale took his hand away to inspect it, and, finding no damages, set it in his lap. He didn’t offer his hand again, and Crowley informed himself on no uncertain terms that he was not experiencing disappointment, regardless of appearances. The book had been an unfortunate addition to a collection of fictional pieces he had borrowed on a variety of subjects, from pirates to slightly more narratively complex pirates. It was an entertaining framework, and he refused to be embarrassed by it his tastes. He was a demon, not a connoisseur. He had only taken Mother Shipton to keep Aziraphale happy

“It was an excellently prophetic.” He grinned, and tossed a scrap of bread in the water.

The ducks squabbled over it. There was a silence.

“You know,” Aziraphale said, “we could go get lunch.” They were going to need to think of a new excuse to spend time together soon, but it would do for now. The demon shrugged.

“Sure. There’s a place over on Conduit Street that’s supposed to be nice.” Crowley had done a bit of research with this conversation in mind; supposedly it had beautiful decorations and acceptable food for an absurd price. “I can pay,” he added as an afterthought. Aziraphale smiled.

“Well, thank you.”

✬✬✬✬✬

Aziraphale handed Crowley a cup of tea, and sat down across from him in a deep armchair. It was luxurious, which struck the demon as rather untoward for an angel, but he didn’t see any relevance, especially considering recent events. He sniffed the cup and, despite not being much of a tea drinker, he took a sip. It wasn’t bad. The angel glanced down at his own cup, and set it on the dark wood of the coffee table between them. His hands fluttered uncomfortably in his lap as he sat back. Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Crowley,” he began, eyes shifting from his manicured fingernails to his companion.

“Hmm?”

“What exactly are we,” he gestured at the bookshop around them, “doing? You know, now that we’re,” he shrugged. “Free.” Crowley grinned and leaned back.

“Whatever we want,” he said with certainty. Aziraphale wrung his hands.

“Well,” he pursed his lips, “that just doesn’t seem right. I’m still an angel, even if my faction isn’t the most,” he thought for a moment, “dynamic. In their views. And you’re, well, not. I mean, the Arrangement maintained a certain distance, and now we’re not really doing that anymore, and I don’t know, it just doesn’t seem right—”

“I thought we’d  already come to the conclusion that your side doesn’t have the answers, least of all when it comes to morality.”

“Yes but—”

“Tell you what, angel, I’ll agree not to spread my predominantly evil nature to you,” Crowley raised a  placating hand, “if you’ll agree not to disdain my company.” He shrugged and added, “or expect me to be too good. We can meet in the middle, like we always have.”

“Well,” Aziraphale smiled faintly, “that sounds very human.” Crowley grinned, raised his cup of tea in a mock toast, took another sip, and fixed the cup with an unsatisfied stare.

“You know, do you have anything a bit, stronger than this?” he asked. Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled as his smile widened.

“Wine or coffee?” the angel asked.

“Coffee, if you would be so kind.”

✬✬✬✬✬

Aziraphale had always had a bit less angelic grace than he should have.** He’d always tried to be basically good, but it wasn’t easy, and he had discovered over the course of his long stint on Earth that sometimes what seemed good for someone turned out to be the worst thing he could do for everyone. He supposed that somewhere along the line he ought to have given up, but he had never quite managed to. Looking at humans and all their seemingly infinite eccentricities and nuances he had never been able to do anything but love them. As a whole, anyway. Aziraphale had a protective nature, which manifested itself as a sort of nervous fastidiousness. He wanted everything safe and he accomplished it by setting things in order and keeping them there. Humans handled the small details of their own affairs, but by and large he had always done his best to keep them safe too.

This mentality had, at some point, without him ever quite realizing it, transferred to apply to Crowley. He had very little control over the demon, but over the breadth of human history he had started trying to make sure he remained alive, well, and on Earth. Sometimes he caught Crowley doing the same for him, though he had never been able to say with any certainty whether it was from a place of genuine caring or just a simple desire to maintain the only relationship the demon had.*** Aziraphale wasn’t by nature one to second guess things, but Crowley had taught him to be a bit more critical, and now it was being applied to the demon himself. The angel supposed it was quite unlikely that the camaraderie between them was anything more than a figment of his charitable imagination.

The reality of the situation was that Crowley didn’t feel that he had the right to say anything that might make the angel uncomfortable or otherwise disturb the status quo. He figured they were friends, and allies after a fashion, and that that was all anybody needed. It worked. He didn’t question. Except now that they were set adrift into the absurdist reality of human existence,**** with no further guidance from Heaven or Hell aside from something along the lines of “die,” things were a little bit less clear. He felt obligated to develop with the situation, to properly make it so they were true allies, and make sure that if they could not have their respective Sides then at least they could be a unified front in the defense of humanity. Or something. Maybe he just needed to do a few shots and go to sleep; it was hard to really say anymore.

✬✬✬✬✬

Several hours had passed. They had said nothing of importance, and they were holding wine glasses instead of tea cups. It was a proper evening, and they were already several cups in and the world was becoming slightly dulled and blurred. Crowley was enjoying himself, rambling loosely about wishing he had gotten in on the whole “ships robbing other ships” business when it had still been relevant. Aziraphale had been listening sedately from his chair. At the end of one of Crowley’s sentences, the angel sat up suddenly.

“You know what,” he said, his face striking the demon as more loose and relaxed than usual, “I think. I think we should go on vacation. We’ve had 6000 years on the job with no rest—”

“Well, one could argue it was mostly rest.”

“Hush.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “As I said, vacation. We could use one. I have a lovely little cottage out… rural… and maybe we should go there for a while. Put our heads down. Plant a nice little garden.” Crowley laughed, and Aziraphale looked offended in a ruffled sort of way.

“I think you’re the only one that wants a garden, angel, but why not. Good reason to get out of the city anyway. No sense in making it easy for the fuckers, eh?” He gave a lopsided grin and took another drink. It sounded nice to get out, spend time together without making excuses, and thumb their noses at the Authorities for a bit.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I suppose it is best to be evasive.” Crowley lifted an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on. Be evasive? You can do better than that, angel.”

“Well,” he said with a hint of a huff, and took another drink of his wine. “Give them the slip. Play them for suckers. Be… deceitful.” Crowley laughed again.

“You know you want to.”

“Stop trying to,” Aziraphale looked away and down a bit, his voice rising in indignation. “Trying to tempt me! Honestly, Crowley, I—”

“What?”

“Well.” He sighed, frowning.

“Humor me.” There was a moment of expectant silence, Aziraphale sitting at the height of prim posture, a look of vaguely uncomfortable disapproval on his face. Crowley was slouched about as low as he reasonably could, his mouth pulled up in a lopsided grin.

“Give the bastards some trouble,” Aziraphale said finally, and the demon leaned forward, grinning.

“I’ll take it, angel, and damn straight we’re going to give the bastards some trouble,” he said with a mischievous brand of glee that the angel had never seen from anyone else, angel, demon, or human. Aziraphale smiled back, unable to help himself.

*This had been as troublesome when he was an angel as it was now that he was a demon. He had vague suspicions that it had been a major reason for his fall.  
**“Angelic grace” here used to mean an austere, self-righteous manner derived from a set of objective morals rooted in the questionably clandestine agenda and opinions of the almighty.  
***Privately, he hoped it was the former.  
****Or, existence among humans. Same thing, really.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale fully intended to make certain that “giving the bastards some trouble” meant nothing more than keeping their heads down and trying to deflect attention. The angel was fairly certain that the demon, despite his willingness to give an opposing impression, also intelligent enough to avoid any confrontation.* As such, their life in a rural cottage with a scrap of land for gardening was quiet and nearly miracle free. Aziraphale maintained a pen with four female ducks and one male,** a garden bursting with healthy vegetables, and a clean cottage. Crowley took to returning to his snake form most of the time and napping in the branches of a tree that grew behind the house. It was in the sun most of the day, and he enjoyed watching the bees and butterflies from the branches. His demonic nature, in this area, was overridden.

Aziraphale took up cooking. With the two of them trying not to use too many miracles and the nearest restaurants far enough to be a hassle, he had realized that he genuinely enjoyed cooking the foods he had been enjoying for the last six thousand years. As the days wore on, he improved slightly and Crowley began to look forward to the shouts of “lunch!” from the ground. When the call came one afternoon, he had been smelling the promising aroma of baking without a hint of smoke for the last several minutes, and he was already fully awake. Aziraphale stood under the tree, gazing up with his characteristic air of mild concern. Crowley flicked his forked tongue out absentmindedly, and began slithering down the tree.

When he arrived at the bottom branch, he gave Aziraphale a pleading glance, and the angel offered him an arm with an air of amused indulgence. He descended the rest of the way, coming to rest draped over Aziraphale’s shoulders. He could have gotten the rest of the way down, sure, but he preferred not to put forth the effort. Not a minute had passed before the great serpent was dumped unceremoniously in a chair and a plate with two steaming blueberry muffins set before him. The air over his scales shimmered faintly, and when the strangeness cleared Crowley was sitting in his human shaped form, lounging back with one arm over the back of his chair and a muffin in the other hand.

“Thanks,” he said. Aziraphale was eating his muffin with a fork.

“You’re welcome,” said the angel with one of his soft smiles. Crowley smiled back around a mouthful of muffin. “Crowley,” he continued in a higher pitched voice, and the demon raised an eyebrow. “Have you considered a hobby? Honestly, it can’t be good for you to just sit in that tree all day.”

“Oh, it’ll be fine. I’m fine. No need to worry about me.”

“Well, dear boy, I thought maybe you would like to range a bit farther afield. Whatever it is snakes do. I mean, you might gain weight, and you keep scaring my poor ducks.”

“Angel,” said Crowley with an amused grin, “I am not going to gain weight.”

“But my ducks. And I’m sure you would find more to do wandering around the countryside. I mean, it can’t be interesting up in that tree.”

“Fine.” He shrugged. “If you really want.”

“Oh, that’s perfect. Thank you.”

✬✬✬✬✬

After he had put away several more muffins, Crowley transformed back into a snake and slithered out the door. He flicked his tongue at the ducks on his way past their pen, startling the drake into a fit of quacking and prompting an exasperated “Crowley!” from inside the house. He continued unhindered by the commotion, his sinuous form parting the grass easily. The Bentley loomed in the drive, and he rubbed against the tire affectionately on his way across the strip of gravel and into the no man’s land*** of the field on the other side. 

He had been enjoying his time as a snake, which he had rarely had a chance to do in his time on earth. When he had been in the form it had usually been for a specific purpose, so he was exploring his experience of the world through its odd senses. It was therapeutic. He found a stone fence bordering the field within several minutes, and made his way to the top of it and began slithering toward a stand of deciduous trees he could see vaguely in the distance. He was so large that he was not in any true danger from the native animals, so he moved at a stately pace with no more attention paid to his surroundings than he felt inclined to at any given moment. The arrangement suited him nicely.

Crowley had been travelling for nearly an hour before he reached the trees and began to crawl up them. He enjoyed the strangeness of his senses and the low vibrations from the movements of squirrels and birds in the branches. The demon decided, in a hazy sort of way, to try to catch a bird. He had never eaten in snake form before, and he was curious if he would enjoy it and how it would affect him. After several attempts he managed to catch a robin, and he did enjoy the fresh meat greatly. Most of the afternoon passed in the pursuit of hunting before he decided to head back to the cottage. When he slithered in the front door and returned to his human**** form, Aziraphale was seated in a plush chair in the living room reading a book. The angel looked up and smiled at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling endearingly.

“How was it?” the angel asked. Crowley slouched into a chair opposite to him before responding.

“Interesting enough. I discovered the joys of hunting.” His tone held a hint of sarcasm now that his stomach was back in its original form and making a spirited but firmly quelled attempt to rebel against its contents, and Aziraphale grimaced in disgust.

“I’m glad to hear it, dear. Will you be going back out tomorrow?” The demon nodded, pouring himself a glass of red wine and sitting back. There was no supper. There rarely was, as neither of them actually had to eat and a load of dishes in the evening was a pointless exertion. They sat in silence for an hour or two as the sun finished setting, with Aziraphale reading steadily and Crowley staring broodingly into his glass.

✬✬✬✬✬

“Crowley, could you be a dear and pour me a glass of that?” The angel was referring to the red wine that the demon had been drinking. The sun had set fully, and a quietly cozy environment had settled over the cottage. Crowley grumbled under his breath without much feeling, and stood up to retrieve another glass to fill.

“Here, angel,” he said, and Aziraphale picked up a bookmark so he could set down his book and drink.

“Thank you,” he said with a pleased smile, and Crowley sneered.***** The silence stretched on for a moment as Aziraphale took a few approving sips.

“Would you be willing to gather some branches for me tomorrow?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley maintained his mildly mocking expression.

“What in the world for?”

“Oh, don’t be like that, there’s a good snake. I want to set them up on the mantel.” Crowley turned to look at the empty slab of marble over the gently crackling fire the angel had built. It had, judging by the temperature in the room, clearly been an entirely aesthetic decision. He shrugged.

“I suppose,” he said, and sighed inwardly. He would have to go out in his bipedal form, with a basket. Aziraphale leaned forward to set his wine glass down, and Crowley moved to refill it without being asked.

“Oh, thank you,” he said, looking at the contents of his glass with a look of conflicted temptation. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

“That’s the spirit,” Crowley said with a crooked grin, and lifted his glass. “To your damned branches, you great preening hen.” Aziraphale chuckled good-naturedly, and clinked his glass to the demon’s.

“To my branches. Try to get some with acorns still on, will you?”

“I’m a demon. You’ll be lucky if I don’t bring you back poison ivy and call it a day.”

*He was right. The truth was that Crowley was, though he would never admit it, terrified to think of what would happen to Aziraphale (or himself, he supposed) if there was a reckoning when they were unprepared.  
**This is the right proportion. Ducks have even fewer scruples than people.  
***It belonged to someone, he just elected not to acknowledge that fact.  
****Ish  
*****The sort of mocking sneer used by those trying to put up an obligatory ill-natured façade.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna stop fussing over it and post this one lol

The next day, Crowley left in the morning. On one hand, he was feeling rather undignified, marching out into the fields with a basket like a country maiden to gather branches. All he was missing, he reflected with resignation, was a plaid dress and a nice apron to be a real picture of pastoral girlhood. Needless to say his demonic conscience was not pleased. He felt silly, but Aziraphale had looked so pleased to see him going out early that he had not been able had the heart to object to doing the angel the favor. Somewhere deep down, a pit of malice that had been forged in the fires of a young hell screamed at him that this was not worth it, not his problem, and he should go back there and tell Aziraphale exactly where he could shove his decoration ideas. Six thousand years of humanity and the slow, softening grace of the company he kept directed him toward yesterday’s stand of trees to do as he was told.

It would bring him more joy to see Aziraphale happy, he knew, than it would to avoid the embarrassment of his situation, so he maintained his usual saunter with a basket in hand and a sort of vague enjoyment of the fresh air left unacknowledged. Human things, all, but he had never really held with the idea of self control. There were bees buzzing about his feet from one wildflower to another, and the whole world felt warm and at peace in a way he rarely noticed. It was lovely, and he found his thoughts drifting from his indignity to the mellow joys of not being in the service of Hell. There were plenty. Blueberry muffins, for instance, or the little crinkles around Aziraphale’s eyes when he was pleased.

His legs allowed him to get to the stand of trees far more quickly than he had the day before. They had several branches low enough to be harvested without too much difficulty, so he pulled out his shears and set to work taking enough that Aziraphale couldn’t possibly send him back for more. The day was going to he half gone by the time he got back to the house, anyway, and he wanted to eat lunch and take a nap in the tree to round out a busy day. No further trips, ducks be damned. With that resolution and a basket packed with suitable branches, he embarked on his meandering journey back.

The day was indeed well progressed when he crossed the drive, patted his Bentley, and observed with a touch of curiosity that the drake was missing from the duck pen.* He came around the corner, and, with a jolt of adrenaline, noticed that the front door was set neatly next to the threshold completely off its hinges. Groaning inwardly, he set his basket down neatly a few feet off the path. He squared his shoulders and marched through the door. A faint smell of decay lingered in the air, which he found to be a relief. Demons were easier to sort out than angels, in his opinion. One of them was sitting in Aziraphale’s seat in the living room. She appeared to be reading a book.** Crowley found this parody blatantly offensive, though he barely noticed the one with a pair of his spare sunglasses on askew seated in his own customary chair.

“Master Crowley, how lovely that you’ve joined us,” hissed the one with the book.

“Yes, yes,” said Crowley with sharp contempt. His concern was shoved down and boiling, evaporating into something verging on panic. “Where is he, then?” His tone was cool and only a touch brittle.

“Well contained, no need to worry about that,” said the other one in a male voice with a mocking half grin. Crowley shrugged.

“I’m not.” Crowley swaggered across the room, and disappeared up a set of rickety stairs onto the upper floor. “Angel!” he called in a pointedly calm voice. “I got your branches.”

“Oh, that’s lovely, dear,” came a slightly muffled reply from the angel’s bedroom.*** Crowley ducked his head in to see two more junior demons, and Aziraphale smiling at him from his place chained to a rickety chair. From the pained tension in the angel’s eyes, Crowley assumed that the chains binding him had been forged in hell fire. One of the demons turned toward them. He had an oddly long nose and wide set eyes. It reminded Crowley of a bird.

“Well then, I suppose this explains how terribly you treated the other ducks,” he said nonchalantly to the interloper.

“No, dear boy, ducks are just like that,” said the angel. “That’s why they evolved the corkscrew—”

“I’m sure our guests already know,” said Crowley with a grimace, raising a hand to try to silence him.

“We don’t care about the angel,” said the duck-like demon with an attempt at a sly grin. “We’re here to retrieve you. We can’t leave a stain like you on the record of Hell’s glories—”

“Oh, shut up,” said Crowley, cutting him off before he got a chance to properly ramble about his own glories and future prospects. “Alright then. Let him up, and I won’t kill any of you on my way down, eh?” he said with a sardonic grin. The duck-demon’s companion squinted at him.

“How do we know you aren’t lying?” he said in a gravelly voice, but Crowley just smiled.

“You don’t, but you can’t exactly haul an angel down to hell so you might as well take my word and move quickly.”

“Well.” The demon paused to think.**** “Fine. Come here then.” He took out a segment of complexly corded and probably miracled rope. Crowley stuck his hands out obligingly, and Aziraphale’s wrist bindings fell away. He stood up abruptly, rubbing his wrists and grimacing. Crowley gestured with his head for Aziraphale to step away from the chair and make certain he was entirely free. The other demon looked offended.

“That was the deal,” said Crowley, and the pair of them grudgingly stayed put. The angel backed away from the chair until his back was against a bookshelf and his hands behind his back. The duck-demon stared at him suspiciously while he tightened the ropes around Crowley’s offered wrists, and the other stepped toward him threateningly.

“Get away from there,” he rumbled, baring his teeth menacingly. There was a splash from the angel’s cupped hand and a terrible sizzling. Aziraphale shook his hands the way one does to dry them. There was now a stain on the carpet, and only two demons remaining in the room. Crowley took a reflexive step back, and the duck-demon turned to flee, making a choking, quack-like noise and slamming the door to the room behind him as though to trap them. Aziraphale looked at the stain on the floor with regret.

“I really didn’t like to do it,” he said in a nervous tone.

“It was a good thing you did,” responded Crowley. “Now dry off your hands and untie me, will you?” He held out his hands and the rope around his wrists. Aziraphale obliged, and the demon massaged his wrists for a second to wipe away the tingling of restraining magic. It was a crude way to go about things, in his opinion. “Why are you keeping holy water in here?” He groused. “I could have died if I came in and wanted a drink.” Aziraphale held up a mason jar from where it had been set on the shelf. It was clearly labelled ‘Holy Water’ in his neat handwriting. Crowley laughed, throwing his head back.

“I was worried about demons,” said Aziraphale testily, and Crowley stepped forward, still grinning, and patted him on the shoulder, laughing again in giddy relief.

“I do wish you had told me, but thank… well, thank someone. Thank you,” he said, and patted Aziraphale on the shoulder. He looked thoroughly confused and disheveled. The demon grimaced at the floor, and snapped his fingers. The mess was gone.

“Oh! I thought we weren’t doing that.” Aziraphale was deeply disapproving, but Crowley just shrugged.

“They’ll be back. I’m worth too much in status to anyone who kills me, so now that the bold ones have proven I’m not invincible the smart ones will show up before too long. I’ve got a few weeks at the most, angel.” Aziraphale’s face crumpled from disapproving to horrified in a matter of moments.

“I’m sure we can trick them again, or, I don’t know, fight them, or…” He trailed off in the face of Crowley’s bordering on hysterical grin.

“We can’t. They’ll know it must have been a trick, before, in the bath. They’ll pay attention. That duck one saw me flinch at the holy water. Aziraphale, dear, I’m fucked.” The words were cheerful, even optimistic in tone. The angel flinched. “You know,” Crowley added, “you might want to go back to the bookshop. Let them come get me, and don’t be in their path, you know?” He shrugged, and Aziraphale’s horror amplified.

“Absolutely not! Honestly, dear, that you would even suggest that, I, well…” he trailed off, eyes wide, and looked taken aback. His eyes shifted as though he was making a momentous decision, and Aziraphale took a great, leaping step, flinging his arms around Crowley in a tight hug. The angel buried his face in his shoulder, and took a deep breath. It was then that Crowley noticed Aziraphale’s slight trembling. He returned the hug, pulling the angel close and squeezing back.

“I want you to be safe,” said Crowley after a moment, expressing just a touch of the emotion he had spent thousands of years carefully repressing. “If I have to go, I want you to keep your books and your life, angel,” he murmured, and Aziraphale pulled away to give him a ferocious look with a startling level of vulnerability. The demon’s breath caught for a moment.

“Whatever happens, we’ll face it together. I’m not leaving now,” he said in a sharp tone, almost accusatory. Crowley nodded slowly.

“Fine. Fine, if you won’t take no for an answer.”

“I won’t. We can ask for help, maybe Anathema knows something, or we could hide, but I’ll be damned if we aren’t going to be ready if they come back.” Crowley laughed.

“Technically I’ll be damned,” he said with a bitter smile. Aziraphale squeezed him again.

“Together, demon,” he said. “We’ll face them together, like we always planned to.”

“Did we?”

“Yes.” The word was low and forceful.

  


*He held out a faint hope that Aziraphale had decided to eat the wretched thing.

**The effect was somewhat mucked up by the fact that she was holding it sideways and glaring at it.

***He didn’t sleep very often. It was more of a study, really.

****It was clearly a great effort for him, and the results were mediocre at best.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been hours since the demons had fled. Crowley had begun drinking, in quantity, immediately. The cottage was dark, and they were sitting side by side on the couch. The demon had slumped over onto Aziraphale and fallen asleep, so the angel was watching his slow breathing, sipping his wine, and letting his mind wander and rehash their situation. It was bleak, but that was to be expected, he supposed. They had only ever expected a few years, he just couldn’t help but mourn the time he had thought they had.

Outside, a night breeze ran through the garden he had just begun to grow. It was their peaceful haven, even if only for a short while. Their little garden. Gardens are a funny thing, he had realized a few centuries back. They are a little space carved from the shifting weight of the universe. A garden is a small patch of reason and safety, a refuge and a place of joy and love. He had started to see the idea of a garden as a sort of metaphor, above and beyond a patch of plants that enfolds all forms of cultivation.

It all comes back to gardens. What separates humans from angels and demons, ultimately, is the desire to garden. They want to grow something. Heaven and Hell cultivate Earth, in a sense, but humans garden for the sake of shaping and encouraging. The supernatural forces, as far as Aziraphale could tell, shaped humanity only to prove that they could. He suspected that Crowley had always understood that, and sometimes he felt shame at his own tardiness when it came to such realizations.

What was more odd, though, was that Crowley and Aziraphale also kept their own, idiosyncratic little gardens. They, unique amongst angels, felt the impulse to cultivate. They shaped their worlds to suit them with imagination and persistence. It was very human of them. Crowley gardened quite literally, while Aziraphale cultivated his book collection, his fingernails, and so on. Angels and demons destroy and suppress. Slow, patient creation is fully human.

This is why neither angels nor demons can love. Love and the desire to cultivate are impossible to separate. Both require the careful encouragement of steady growth rooted in joy, a desire for familiarity, and affection. Both are products of the same set of impulses. Aziraphale suspected that the line between gardeners and harvesters was well defined and that he and Crowley were squarely on the human side of it all.

It was why they were capable of loving each other. The bond between them had been cultivated quietly for thousands of years until it had grown into a great vine wound around them and binding them together. Their oldest, most beautiful garden was their love for each other, and it had changed them. They had so much in common with humanity now, with their mix of good and evil and their domestic habits. Aziraphale sometimes wondered if God had made them a bit different to begin with. Somewhere deep down, he felt that he and Crowley hadn’t gone native. They’d gone home.

What really disturbed him, though, was where God herself stood on the matter. The Garden of Eden served as evidence of her cultivation impulse. All the universe was her garden, with the implication that she had built angels, in their austerity, to be different from herself. The desire to create is characteristic of humanity, but it defines God. She truly made mankind in her image, with her impulses, and she deprived the angels of that virtue. Sometimes, in a nagging little space in the back of his mind, Aziraphale felt like he knew that God’s interest must not be in Heaven or Hell, because the Garden of Eden and all that came after was the object of her intricate tending through the centuries.

So Crowley and Aziraphale cultivated their love, God cultivated humanity, and Heaven and Hell were the forces of destruction. Aziraphale really did want to insist that he must be making a mistake, but sitting on the couch in the living room of a dark cottage, with a glass of wine in one hand and the other arm around Crowley’s waist, he couldn’t truly believe it. No. The weight of a demon’s head resting on his shoulder and the gentle breathing of his tranquil sleep disproved it. Nobody with so much kindness in them could be truly evil. No two people willing to kill or die for each other could be anything other than fundamentally human, and all the more beautiful for it.  
And God knew it too, he suspected. Somehow, that didn’t help.

Smiling down at the demon, he sighed inwardly. If he was going to sleep, he needed to do it upstairs before Aziraphale felt obligated to miracle away aching joints on both of them. On an impulse, he kissed Crowley’s forehead to wake him up. It was the first time he’d done anything like it. The demon blinked at him blearily, lifting his head. Aziraphale ran a hand through Crowley’s red hair and smiled.

“Let’s get you to your bed, darling,” he murmured, and the demon shook himself, swaying and hauling himself to his feet

“I can take m’own self t’bed,” Crowley slurred, and Aziraphale laughed.

“Of course, but I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I followed you up the stairs, there’s a good fellow.” Crowley squinted at him suspiciously.

“S’pose not,” he muttered, and began stumbling for the steps with Aziraphale’s steadying hand on his elbow. The angel was half surprised he hadn’t been hissed at. When Crowley had been tucked off to bed, Aziraphale spent his night sitting on his own bed, deep in thought.

✬✬✬✬✬

The next day dawned on one extremely hungover demon and an insufferably cheerful angel. Crowley had apparently taken his imminent doom to heart, and he used the freedom it gave him to miracle away the hangover as soon as he could think clearly enough to do so. Aziraphale watched him pace the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a loose robe on, muttering to himself. After about ten minutes of this, the demon stopped in his tracks and turned on his heel to point at the angel.

“Did you?” His eyes were wide. “Did you kiss my forehead last night?” Aziraphale took a sip of tea to hide his amused smile.*

“Yes, dear boy, I did. Sorry.” Crowley hesitated, then shrugged.

“No, no, it’s fine. Just, uh, well. You know. Not expected.” Crowley paused again and frowned. “Why?”

“Well, I suppose you looked nice and peaceful, and I thought it would be a good way to wake you up. It was an affectionate gesture.” Crowley’s eyes widened more. The silence hung heavy for a long moment.

“Oh. Well that’s alright then,” he finally said, and returned to his pacing.

“You know, Crowley, we could talk to someone. Maybe Anathema—wasn’t that her name?—could help us. Excellent bloodline for that kind of work. Or, I don’t know,” Aziraphale sounded as uncertain as he felt, but the demon turned toward him again with a gleam in his eye.

“Anathema, yes, I could talk to her.”

“We,” corrected Aziraphale gently. Crowley frowned.

“Angel, I’d really rather you didn’t put yourself in danger.”

“I was willing to risk spending an eternity in hell in your place. I’m not going to sit here and twiddle my thumbs while you run about risking your life now,” he said firmly,** and Crowley ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“Fine. But if they come to haul me off, promise me you’ll let me go and not do anything stupid.”

“No!”

“Angel, this isn’t your problem. I won’t have you risking your life—”

“You haven’t got a say, dear, so stop arguing. We might as well call on Anathema today, and you really ought to be presentable.” Crowley threw up his hands in exasperation and spun on his heel. He went dramatically up the stairs to get dressed, leaving his empty mug on the counter and Aziraphale chuckling at the display.

“I can hear you, you know,” came the demon’s disgruntled voice from the upper floor. Aziraphale knew, logically, that he shouldn’t be so cheerful, but he couldn’t shake a joyful certainty that it would all turn out okay.

*It didn’t work. Crowley was too familiar with the way Aziraphale’s eyes creased when he was happy.

**Though it came out a bit high pitched at the end, despite his best efforts.


	5. Chapter 5

The Bentley rolled toward Jasmine Cottage at a pace that neither Aziraphale nor Crowley were pleased by. Every time the demon would speed up a bit, a barrage of stiff complaints would start, and every time he slowed down to within a reasonable margin of the legal limit his spine practically itched with impatience. He wanted to get it over with anyway. They were visiting, unannounced, on the grounds that this was an emergency. Crowley felt vaguely that, as a demon, he was entitled to a bit of imposition here and there,* so he hadn’t felt the need to suggest that they try to contact her conventionally first, though he’d had a pang of guilt at not mention the appropriate conventions for Aziraphale's sake.

Crowley, intent on the road and his own imminent doom, noticed Aziraphale’s complete silence long after it fell. He glanced at the angel, and gave him one of those dastardly grins that wasn’t so much from the heart as it was intended to make him look like the image of demonic optimism. Aziraphale’s returned smile was sickly and wilted, and Crowley’s own cheerful look fell away. Nothing for it but address the issue straight on, then.

“What’s wrong?”

“Ah, well, you know. Nothing, I suppose.” Crowley took his eyes from the road to stare at the angel through his sunglasses.

“There’s something bothering you.”

“Crowley, of course there is. But hopefully we can fix it. Now keep your eyes on the road, serpent.”

“Serpent?”

“Well, you call me angel,” said Aziraphale primly, and Crowley gave a short laugh.

“I suppose I do.”

Aziraphale placed his hand between them. It would have been casual from anyone else, but Crowley had spent six thousand years with Aziraphale’s fastidious care for personal space and posture. The demon obliged, holding the angel’s soft hand in his own and rubbing his thumb gently over his palm. Aziraphale sighed.

“You know, Crowley, I was wondering if you would like to help me garden. I know you keep all those houseplants,** so I thought,” he said, cutting off the sentence with a little shrug. Crowley tilted his head, and made a sort of strangled coughing noise.

“I’m not sure you would like my gardening style,” he said, and Aziraphale blinked.

“Oh, well, alright then.” They drove in silence then, hands clasped together, deep in their own thoughts. The pair shared the silence between them, and it was a thing of comfort. The Bentley was a little safe haven, a space Crowley had inhabited and cultivated for decades, and a space where they both had memories and felt at home in their own ways. Come hell, Armageddon, or the Archangel fucking Gabriel, this is where they’d be. Hand in hand, if at all possible. Crowley, before he quite realized it, had a soft expression on his face. Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled back.

✬✬✬✬✬

Crowley rapped on the cottage door, and stepped back so it would be the angel’s benevolent mannerisms that greeted Anathema, who opened the door wearing a plaid dress and an expression of confused good grace. Aziraphale gave a perfect, harmless smile.

“Hello dear, I dare say we were never introduced properly. I’m Aziraphale, this is Crowley, and I do believe we drove you home a few months ago. And there was that business on the air base. You’re a witch, aren't you?” She smiled uncertainly, and glanced back and forth between them. Crowley gave her a little wave and a semi-sardonic smile. She nodded.

“Yes. And a good one. Would you two like to come in?” she held open the door with a mix of curiosity and confusion apparent on her elegant features. Aziraphale’s eyes, unbelievably, managed to crinkle even further.

“Why, yes, thank you.” He stepped through the doorway without a second thought, but Crowley glanced up at the remains of the horseshoe and grimaced. He braced himself for the warm, stinging sensation and he stepped through and into her house after the angel. “We would appreciate your advice about something, if you do that sort of thing?” Aziraphale began innocently, and Anathema frowned.

“What sort of thing, exactly?” she asked, and Crowley took the moment to cut in, before Aziraphale could feed her assumptions with any more vagueness.

“I’m sure you noticed that we aren’t exactly human. Well, long story short, we’re in trouble with our head offices for our role in stopping the apocalypse.”

“And fraternizing,” added Aziraphale, earning a sharp glare from the demon.

“That too,” he added smoothly. “We were wondering if you had any advice on how to evade them,” he said with a sharp little smile. Brows furrowing, Anathema looked at the two of them.

“I think you two had best have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the kitchen table, “and tell me exactly how much danger you put Newt and I in by coming.” Aziraphale blushed, shame clear on his face.

“I’m sorry, we can go, you don’t have to take any risks—” With a wave of her hand, she gestured for him to shut up.

“No, no, I just need to know what to expect. I suppose this could at least be interesting.” She squinted at them. “I thought I was seeing things after I hit my head, you know,” she said meditatively, “but you two have a sort of sparkle on your auras. They’re very strong, by the way. If I had to guess, I’d say that’s the angel bit. Tune a magical instrument to the common thread between every angel’s soul and every demon’s, and I could track it. I assume that’s about the method they’ll use?” Aziraphale had a look of dignified cluelessness, but Crowley nodded.

“They’ll probably use hellhounds or something equally violent when they come for me in the end, but yes,” he said. Aziraphale shuddered subtly. “Is there any way to confuse the signal?”

“No. It’ll come through as long as it exists,” said Anathema. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help, and I don’t really want them to track you here.”

“As long as it exists?” said Aziraphale hopefully. She gave him a half smile.

“It’s possible that I could burn it away entirely, but I doubt that’s what you want.”

“What would that entail?” asked Crowley.

“I can’t be certain it would work, or exactly how. There’s certainly no precedent for it, and if it did it would probably be a slow, agonizing process that would leave you human, or mostly so. It would remove your inherent nature, and likely alter aspects of your mind and personality that pertain to it. It would almost certainly give you a human lifespan,” she said bluntly, and Aziraphale inhaled sharply.

“No, my dear boy, you can’t do that,” said the angel with a pleading glance at Crowley, who looked grim.

“You would be stripping away a layer of my soul,” he said, and she nodded.

“That’s fairly apt. I could probably try to do the same for the angel,” she said, and Aziraphale shook his head violently, his speed and horror reminiscent of someone backing away from a spreading fire. Crowley shook his head more slowly.

“I’m sorry for bothering you, but I don’t think we want that.” Anathema nodded.

“Well, you can come back if you change your mind, but I’d rather you not lead them here otherwise. I really am sorry about your situation, and it would be interesting to document and study the process. Probably even worth the personal risk,” The angel look horrified, and Crowley had an expression of grim amusement.

“We’ll consider it. Thank you, Anathema. Stock up on holy water, just in case,” the demon said, standing up and herding Aziraphale gently toward the door. “Anything I can do for you, in exchange for your time? A quick miracle?”

“I don’t have to sign any sort of contract, do I?”

“No.” Crowley laughed. “I don’t actually work for hell anymore. No reason to deliver them souls.” Anathema pursed her lips.

“Our gutters are clogged from that storm. Oh, and the garden hasn’t been watered today,” she said, and Crowley snapped his fingers.

“There you are, then,” he said. The gutters were spotless. He sauntered unceremoniously out of the cottage and climbed into the Bentley, and Aziraphale followed after, waving goodbye to Anathema with a significantly dampened smile. His blue eyes looked haunted, and Crowley gave him a concerned look.

“Are you good, angel?”

“I, well, yes, I’m an angel,” responded Aziraphale in befuddlement.

“No, you great fool, are you okay? Content?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale paused. “No, I suppose not. I haven’t the faintest clue what to do.”

“Neither do I. We’ll get through it, love,” said Crowley with his best attempt at a reassuring tone.

“Love?”

“You call me dear.”

“I suppose I do. But they’re really not the same thing, you know,” said Aziraphale, eyebrows scrunched together.

“Neither are ‘angel’ and ‘serpent’.” A moment of silence stretched on as the angel considered that. “But I don’t have to call you that if you don’t like,” Crowley added.

“No,” said Aziraphale after a minute, “I don’t mind.”

 

*Aziraphale had no such stance. He just hadn’t really considered the social conventions.

**The plants were back in Crowley’s flat. They wouldn’t dare wilt. (And Crowley checked in on them every week or so anyway)


	6. Chapter 6

The next day dawned warm and clear on Aziraphale watering their fledgling vegetable garden and Crowley napping, not on the tree, but wrapped loosely around his chest and over his shoulders. The angel hummed as he worked. The world was at peace, and the only remaining hint of the other afternoon's conflict was the diminished number of ducks in the pen.* Brilliant sunlight cast rainbows in the mist rolling off the hose and gleamed off Crowley’s dark scales, painting an unconventional scene of rural beauty and reinforcing Aziraphale’s thoughtless assumption that they would find a way to make this last forever. It seemed wrong that any outside force could touch them here, in their eden.

Crowley rousing himself as the angel finished watering, flicking his tongue to taste the air. That, perhaps, was the real difference from before the intrusion. Crowley would not leave the angel alone in the cottage again, and his guard, despite appearances, was up. They hadn’t discussed Anathema’s offer, and Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. On one hand, he couldn’t stand to give up his own angelic nature, but neither could he imagine a world in which he watched Crowley grow old and leave him behind.

Aziraphale went inside, and cast around for the branches Crowley had gathered. He would make a wreath for the door instead of a display for the mantel, he decided.** The angel, seated at their kitchen table and ready to embark on learning how to form the structure, smiled and ran a finger over Crowley’s head as the snake stirred again, coming awake and peering around him. He slithered down from Aziraphale’s shoulders, twining through the legs of his chair and coming to rest as a jumbled coil on the floor, where he looked imploringly at Aziraphale, who smiled at the him indulgently. He lifted the Serpent of Eden onto a seat, where Crowley shifted back into his usual form and picked up a branch to turn around idly in his hands.

“Good morning, love,” said Aziraphale. Crowley was still wearing his silken pajamas.

“Morning,” the demon responded, a look of contentment softening his sharp features.

“It’s terribly early for your human form.”

“I thought we should talk about yesterday.”

“Ah. Yes, I rather believe we should.”

“I don’t plan on doing it.” The words were perfectly blank, and Aziraphale frowned slightly, despite his relief.

“Are you sure? It would keep you safe.”

“No it wouldn’t,” said Crowley, with an ironic, melancholy smile. “All paths lead to hell, angel.”

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” murmured Aziraphale, making eye contact over his forming wreath.

“No, no. Just enjoy our last few days and don’t fret over what might have been.” The demon’s orange eyes betrayed only resignation. The angel nodded and stood up abruptly, abandoning his wreath.

“Should I make tea? Or breakfast? Whatever you like, dear boy,” he said, desperate to change the topic. Crowley laughed, and it was a brittle, cut glass noise like that of a man on the verge of dispair.

“No, thank you. Make your wreath, and sit with me. Normally. I’ve only just gotten you to accept my friendship. I won’t lose you over some silly awkwardness about my impending doom.” Aziraphale hummed deep in his throat in acknowledgement. He sat back down, but his hands remained twisted in his lap.

“Very well.”

“Thank you, love.” Crowley punctuated the words with a soft smile. Aziraphale’s face twisted into a fragile expression of such tender melancholy that the demon reached across the table to grab one of his hands and squeeze it briefly. “Really,” said Crowley, “make your wreath. Is there anything you’d like me to do? Or clean?”

“No, dear. Have a glass of wine, and sit down.” Aziraphale hummed low in his throat as he worked, the tune shifting between fragments of different misheard classical songs. A glass had appeared in Crowley’s hand, and another one by the angel’s elbow. The silence hung between them, thick and comfortable.

✬✬✬✬✬

“I’m sorry,” murmured Crowley after what could have been an hour. The wreath was close to done.

“For what?” Aziraphale’s tone was distracted.

“Dragging you into this. Ruining your reputation and taking away your place in heaven.”

“My place in heaven has been gone for six thousand years. I thought we had decided that this was our place?” Crowley snorted.

“It won’t be us for much longer, angel. It’ll just be you. I’m sorry for leaving you in such a bad position.” He ran his hand over his face, and took a breath. His cheeks were flushed with wine, and Aziraphale gently pulled the cup from his hand to set it to the side. “You would be better off if I had stayed your enemy.”

“You don’t really believe that. Besides, it’s been two days. Maybe there won’t be any more incidents. Maybe it really was a one time thing.”

“Logistically speaking, you’d be better off without me. Damn it, you wouldn’t even know what you had missed, so it wouldn’t have mattered. And don’t lie to yourself. We both know they’ll be back. They saw me flinch at the holy water.”

“Perhaps so, but I made my own decisions, Crowley.”

“How many times did you tell me no? How many times did I keep pushing? I should have just left you alone when you asked me to.” The demon’s eyes were full yellow and gleaming. Aziraphale smiled fondly.

“No, no. I never meant it, you fool. I needed to believe that I did, love, and I needed Gabriel and the rest to believe that too. But I never meant it, and I’ll always be grateful that you never listened. And Crowley?”

“Yes?”

“This isn’t about me. I’m not the one faced down hell. I’m just the old fool here to hold your hand.” Crowley shook his head, and took back his wine glass. He swallowed enough to make the angel frown in disapproval, and shook his head as though to clear it

“Don’t be so damn selfless, angel,” Crowley said with a chuckle. A hint of a smile played across Aziraphale’s lips as he refocused on his work.

“You’re not the only one who is allowed to be selfless.”

“I’m not selfless. I’m a demon.”

“Does that really matter anymore?” Aziraphale’s smile glowed with affection and gentle amusement.

“I suppose not.”

✬✬✬✬✬

The sun had set hours ago and Crowley had been stumbling whenever he tried to walk since well before then. Empty wine bottles lay strewn around them where they sat together on the couch, and the demon was sprawled comfortably against Aziraphale’s side. His eyes were half lidded, and Aziraphale was running a hand affectionately through his red hair.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to coil up in my bed, then, you great serpent,” the angel teased with uncharacteristic mischief,*** and the words roused Crowley enough for the demon to lift his head and squint in the other’s direction. His head bobbed in a way disconcertingly similar to a cobra inspecting prey, and his harsh face broke into a broad smile. Aziraphale laughed. “Do change, then, dear, I don’t want to carry you to bed in that form.”

That was all that hand to be said before there was a giant black snake on his lap making an uncoordinated attempt to perch on his shoulders. The angel kept his promise, lifting Crowley up and carrying him up the stairs where he dumped him unceremoniously his bed and joined him there. For once, he bothered to actually sleep, wrapped up in blankets and feeling lengths of Crowley’s smooth hide pressed against him, seeking heat.****

When Aziraphale opened his eyes next, the light streaming through the window illuminated Crowley sprawled next to him in his human form, snoring softly. Eyes still half closed, the angel watched the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, and shifted closer to him. Aziraphale wrapped an arm around his waist and squeezed, burying his face in the other’s side. A soft noise issued from the demon’s throat as he half woke, frowning and sighing.

Slowly, his eyelids fluttered fully open and, grumbling, he glanced down at the angel wrapped around him. Aziraphale smiled up at him, and the demon snorted in amusement.

“Wasn’t it less than a century ago you told me I was going too fast for you? Now you’re practically attached to me, without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“I needn’t be so touchy, if you don’t want,” said Aziraphale, concern crossing his soft features. Crowley shrugged.

“No, no. I appreciate the gesture, angel. Though I would appreciate breakfast, too.”

“Very well, then. But you’re making the eggs and bacon. I always feel bad cooking that sort of thing. The poor animals…”

“Fine,” said Crowley, yawning and stretching. Aziraphale sat up, and they both hauled themselves out of bed and into the kitchen. The demon had miracled away his hangover, but he still loved the slight energetic buzz of caffeine, so he glanced meaningfully at the coffee pot as he cracked the eggs into a pan. It began brewing coffee they had never bought. Aziraphale was on the other side of the kitchen, staring at a toaster as though its simple controls were rocket science. He hadn’t had the opportunity to use it yet, since he had been focusing on learning to make food from scratch.***** Within a half hour, the table was set with a simple, human breakfast and an angel and a demon were both eating steadily at their places. The threat of eternal suffering had a startlingly great effect on the appetite, Crowley found.

*Crowley had miracled the door back in place the night before while Aziraphale protested loudly. 

**If it had a few sprigs of magically significant plants, then Crowley need never know. A bit of herbal luck and safety never hurt, no matter how vehemently he may scoff. 

***Not that he would mind the company. 

****Or perhaps affection. Who is to say? 

*****Though it would be a lie to imply that the fact that he had no idea how to use it didn’t play a role in why he hadn’t tried yet. 


End file.
